The Day the Scorpion Hopped
by C. M. Spinks
Summary: AU of that decisive moment when Christine decided between the Scorpion and the Grasshopper. What if?


Christine lay in agony on the bed. She didn't know how she'd gotten here; when she'd turned the figurine in the case and the world exploded, she was _very_ certain that it would be the last thing she'd experience. Even if she could hope to survive, who would go down to the source quick enough to save her?

And could this pain be called living? She'd never been too active, even when she'd wandered Swedish and French and other unknown countrysides with her father, she'd reserved much of her strength for the travel itself. There had never been much time or reason for extenuating play. Even so, she could feel that her movement was much reduced. She could feel that it would forever be so. She wasn't sure if she'd ever be able to stand, let alone move or work or sing.

How long had it been since that explosion that she'd been here? Christine didn't remember anything of being found or being taken away, but she had been coming back to consciousness in a haze for a few minutes or seconds at a time for what seemed like a while. When she inevitably fell under again, no doubt a combination of exhaustion and shock and whatever medicine they _must_ have been administering for pain, she had strange dreams.

Most seemed like a rosier version of the masquerade, a happy ballroom filled with happy dancers, twirling and swirling in glowing satin and silk and sparkles. It felt like she was wrapped in starlight, event hough she seemed to just be an observer in most of these dreams.

It was a strange contrast to the burnt reality she kept coming back to.

It must have been the pain that woke her up and kept her there. Christine had been fully conscious for several minutes, her addled mind trying everything it could to make sense of all these facts. She'd turned the figurine, the world exploded, something _hit_ her, and then she came here, somehow. _Somehow_.

Her throat cracked as she tried to speak up, but nothing came but a squeak. Dry. Too dry. Christine looked for a sign of help or water, and found the latter. On a small book table to her right, familiar but foreign like the rest of the dark environment, was a tall glass of untouched water. It was within arm's reach, if she could simply-

She hissed as she tried to move her right arm. Too much, too much! Her arm was heavy and stiff and it _crinkled_ as she but twitched it to test her movement. Skin should _not_ make that sound, she decided, and was horrified. Still… nothing could get better if she could not move at all, could it? And she _could_ move, it was just more than she'd expected.

Of course, she noticed, her left arm was not as injured. It would be cross body, but she could reach the glass that way, in theory. She took a deep breath and tested that arm and found that it was, quite thankfully, hardly painful at all. It was only stiff, and she could handle that, she decided.

So she reached, leaning only as long as she had to on her injured arm, and took the water. It was hard to pace herself, but she forced herself to take the water slowly. Once when she had been much younger, she'd gotten ill and couldn't eat for days. When she could at last take more than a gulp at a time, she'd gorged herself and made herself sick in seconds. She'd had her father then. She didn't seem to have anyone now.

When the water was gone, she could more accurately feel both the refreshing wetness of her throat and the horrible dryness of the rest of her body. Christine was certain that the pain medication was wearing off, the throbbing in her extremities becoming more and more real.

"H-hello.." She tried to speak. "Hello." She called, as calmly as she could manage. But it hurt her throat too much, even with the water, so she didn't try again. Even so, she heard a shuffling in the hallway, could see shadows of someone coming to her room from the light that split the crack of door and floor. The door opened, and,

"Christine?"

~O~O~O~

She was awake at last, thank God! He rushed to her, careful of her right arm, which he knew was burnt far worse than the rest of her. He brushed crisp hair from her face, wiped the newly beading sweat from her face.

"R-Raoul.." She smiled, though the gesture obviously pained her. She lifted her hand, her left one, to his cheek. "What happened?" She was hoarse, though he could see she'd already drank the water he'd left.

"We're not sure, exactly." His cheek hurt where her hand rested. She was only gingerly touching the marred skin, but though his wounds healed very quickly, for they'd been very light, the few days that had passed still left them very fresh. "He- he can't talk very well, you see."

"He?"

"E-Erik." Raoul admitted. "We have spoken some, he and I. But he's.." He didn't know how to tell her. It wasn't just one thing. So many things the broken man and he had managed to talk about, and she deserved to know all of it and Erik _wanted_ her to know, too, but where to start? Did he deserve to be the one to tell her? But he was almost certain Erik would die if he saw Christine alive, even or maybe especially still injured. Yet again, he might die before she fully recovered if they attempted to wait.

"He's alive?" She seemed mystified, horrified, and relieved. Raoul nodded sagely. "Can he.. explain?"

"Perhaps. We must get you stable first, though. I see your fever is returning.. Allow me, love, to get you more to drink, and a doctor.. I won't be long, dear." He consoled her as she gripped his hand with her left, her right shaking. Was it the fever or emotion? Raoul couldn't hope to guess. "Please, Christine.." He searched her eyes, and she, his, a silent promise to return echoing his verbal one. She sighed and released him.

Quickly, he alerted the house doctor he and his family had hired to care for the four of them, who had been chatting with the Persian. They went ahead to Christine, and a nurse that the doctor had brought with him, his wife, Raoul thought, helped him with the water he'd promised Christine. They then went back up to Christine and the others, though he hobbled behind with his left leg still aching from the fracture he'd sustained. When the torture chamber collapsed, the iron tree had dropped a single, nearly molten branch on top of him, splitting his foot open and down to the bone.. and the morphine only lasted so long.

The nurse waited at the door, holding it open for him, and let him take the water to Christine himself. She looked grateful for both, smiling happily when he sat down on the covers beside her, the dip a welcome weight, it seemed. He held the glass for her as she sat up and trembled when she tried to take it from him. She drank a full glass and then another before she had to stop, exhausted.

"A healthy ability to drink, it seems." The doctor commented. "How do you feel, Christine?"

"I'm.. in pain." She struggled to say. "But I think I'm well enough.. all things considered."

"Optimism, good. Can you tell me what hurts and how much?"

"My face, right arm and shoulder hurt the worst. My legs and chest secondly. The rest.. just stiff."

"Seems in line with the extent of your injuries. You were severely burned on your right side, and seemed to inhale a large amount of smoke, but I don't expect there to be permanent damage, though I'd let singing alone for quite a while. Your profession will have to wait, I'm afraid." The doctor said. Raoul noted that he didn't comment on what would surely be permanent damage to the right side of her face and arm. He'd told Raoul quite bluntly that she was lucky to be alive, but her looks would never be quite what they were. Raoul, of course, hadn't cared, and at least he matched her in that regard.

The doctor informed him that his sea-faring days were done, the fracture in his leg too extensive, burns and the damage to his muscles too deep, making him too fragile and too slow. He'd always have a limp, and may have to walk with a cane. He could accept that. He'd gotten off light, compared to his would be bride and her deranged teacher. Oh, how badly _he_ had gotten off.. Though Raoul had secret thoughts that the man did, in a way, earn his punishment.

Even hearing his story, while Raoul now had sympathy for the man's tragic life, he still had no real reason to have done what he did to Christine, and it was his insanity that led all four of their injuries. He did not enjoy seeing the man suffer, and suffer he did, but Raoul supposed he reaped what he'd wrought. Raoul _was_ now determined to help him, for no one else would but himself and Christine, and despite the notion that Erik had earned his punishment, he couldn't let go of the sympathy he'd built for the man.

"When can I.. see Erik?" Christine's voice and her sharp question, outlined by her difficult breathing, brought Raoul back to the moment. The doctor looked between Raoul and the Persian, who shared a look with each other.

"The fourth victim is not doing as well as you are, Christine, which is to say he is the most severely injured among you. He is very weak at the moment, and I'm honestly not sure if he will ever fully recover. That being said, I think that if he thinks he is up to a visit, and you are as well, you ought to speak as soon as possible. I don't wish to dishearten you, but I cannot give you much hope in this situation." The doctor spoke slowly, cautiously, lingering on each word before moving on to the next. Christine was stronger than he thought, Raoul knew.

She'd dealt with loss before. It was cruel for God, and yes, Raoul thought those exact words to the heavens himself, to put her through so much in her life with what seemed like so little reward, but it had made her strong. Or perhaps she'd always been strong, and these tests were just proof of the unbeatable nature of Christine Daae.

"I _am_ well enough." She said after a small moment. "I am simply not sure if I can carry myself." Raoul squeezed her good hand, and she squeezed back. Then, the Persian coughed.

"If Monsieur de Chagny and Mademoiselle Daae do not mind, I am fit enough to carry you to our mutual friend, as I know Monsieur surely would if he could." He offered.

"I don't mind, my friend." Raoul wished, not for the first time since the man had introduced himself, that he'd given a _name_. He was getting rather tired of using epithets and titles in regard to the mysterious man.

"Nor I. Please, take me there." Christine asked, lifting her good arm in his direction. With a nod he stooped to take her up, placing his hands beside her,

"Let me know if anything is uncomfortable, Mademoiselle." He said, and she nodded when he gently took her in his arms. She seemed so small, dainty against his wide frame. It didn't help that he still wore his black suit, meant for the opera, and she was in a light, white cotton dress meant to be as displeasing to her wounds as possible. Christine was stark and bright against his shadowy form, and Raoul almost giggled. It seemed like a portrait of a horror story, the wounded maiden held safe by a man of shadow. Were it not for the grim situation in which this 'portrait' had been formed, he might have shared the silly thought.

He did not.

~O~O~O~

The gentleman doctor went ahead, leaving his nurse to assist Raoul. Christine knew her proud fiance wished he could walk on his own, but he seemed exhausted and still in pain from whatever had injured him, and he knew himself that he needed someone, just in case. The dark man carried Christine out into the hallway, and she was quite proud that she did not let on that each step was a shift in pain as well as distance. She let her right arm dangle, for bending it to let it lie in her lap was more painful than letting it hang where it might. Even bandaged, she knew it would not look good when it came to light, and it looked awkward as they went, the limb stiffly bouncing against her ribcage.

Still, the dark man was very gentle and considerate. Christine wondered morbidly if he had perhaps had practice with such scenarios before. He seemed a man of iron. Though his voice was kind and even and deeply sweet and foreign, his expression never wavered far from what could easily turn into a hard scowl. She didn't know how he was involved, though she did recall hearing a third voice amongst Erik's and Raoul's, so she supposed it was he that had been down there with them.

The walk to Erik's room was short, but it felt long, especially when each step caused a silent bell-toll of pain in her shoulder. It seemed to Christine that they were as silent and morbid and aching as a funeral parade. All they were missing was music and rain, she thought.

Raoul hobbled into the room first, and then waved for the dark man to bring Christine in.

"Brace yourself, dear little Mademoiselle." The dark man said to her softly, the whiskers of his beard tickling her ear. It reminded her of her father, how he would tell her stories in the most delicate of whispers. But this wasn't a story. This was her life, and the dark man was not her father, for he was long dead, and the man who held her now was very much alive. So was Erik, though he'd always looked the opposite, and now… well. She was about to find out just how much worse he'd gotten.

~O~O~O~

Erik had been watching her hand like a hawk would watch its prey, deciding to pounce or not. When she'd finally lifted her hand to decide, his heart, dusty as it was, fluttered with anxiety; what would she choose? Would she choose mercy? Which decision would even _be_ mercy? What could qualify as _mercy_ when her options were both _death_ , for either way she had to choose life and death with _him_?

She chose the scorpion. She chose _him_. She chose to live with _him_. She chose to _die_ with _him_. His heart beat for the very first time in the cage of his chest, he thought, as a click echoed out underneath the decision. The scorpion hopped.

 _The scorpion hopped._ Wasn't it the grasshopper who was supposed to hop? And his lovely Christine had definitely chosen, had _certainly_ turned the scorpion, hadn't she? His mind whipped back to the setting of his trap and he realized that that click was the death toll of hundreds.

He had seconds.

He couldn't stop what was about to happen, but he could try to minimize the horrible mistake he'd made in the depths of his madness. So many mistakes, truthfully. He had seconds only, though, and too much time had passed for most of those mistakes to ever be rectified.

The machinations, hidden in his house, clicked again, and he and the scorpion both leapt forward. Erik unashamedly pressing his form to hers while the scorpion popped off its stand and fell to the floor. No time for propriety when-

Fire. Light. Thunder. Collapse.

Erik sat up, feeling wet and hot. Blood? Sweat? Pain- so blood. Hot, fire- sweat, too. There were stars in his head, and blood in his eyes, the sign of head trauma. But beneath, safe-

No! Where was she? How could she have been lost? He whipped around, the stars trapped behind his eyes making it impossible to see, and he nearly fell despite being only on hands and knees. Ah, but there! He must have pushed her away, rather than tackled her, though it was intended to be in protection.

All around them, his house was burning. He could feel the drafts from above, and he knew the topside of the building was gone, and mostly many layers of earth and stone with it. How many hundreds of pounds of gunpowder had he saved for this? He couldn't remember, and it didn't matter. What mattered was Christine, and saving her from this, the latest and possibly worst mistake in a long, long line of horrors.

He hoped, desperately, that he had in fact managed to save her. She seemed so still as he crawled towards her. The fires around them _danced_ , and she was stone in comparison. Even the world around them crumpled before she appeared to breathe.. but he saw her chest rise at last as he neared her. As he leaned over her, Erik heard a cough and a yell,

"Christine!" It was the boy, being dragged by the Daroga from what used to be the torture chamber. He'd forgotten about them. Daroga was cut and bleeding, his magnificent suit dusty and torn, but worse was the boy, burned and cut and half-conscious. His bloodied blue eyes were locked on Erik and Christine.

"Get her out of here!" The boy commanded, and at once Erik realized that the boy truly did love her. The boy was weak and mangled, but Erik knew on his life-taught instinct that he would lose should the whelp choose to challenge him for the right and duty of saving Christine. But he chose not to- he chose her safety first, and Erik knew he would not have been able to do the same.

So he obeyed. His hands were burnt and bloody so he fashioned a sling from his cape and bound her to his back and he climbed. If anyone could find a way to the world above from this wreckage it would be him.

And he did.

When Christine was safe, a level just below the ground, he did his best to tend her wounds- her right arm and cheek and eye, which had been most directly over or facing the fire pit, where the first of the explosion most easily made its way up and out. Not ruined, but close. His fault, his fault.. His only consolation was that he seemed to have successfully shielded her from a full body burning, his back and side and already hideous face taking the brunt of an explosion that would have killed her instantly.. But it wasn't enough. He'd taken too much. He had to make sure nothing more was lost, not for her..

Erik went back down, and found the Daroga trying to follow his path up the ruined layers of stone and building, carrying the boy and struggling. Daroga was strong in his older age, but he was nevertheless a tired man who'd seen and done too much already. War and torture and loss had plagued him as much as it had Erik, though Daroga was a handsome man, and he was by far the more tired of such living. His strength waned as it was tested here, failing him, though he fought at least for the boy who loved Christine so.

Erik wordlessly took the boy from him and led the way. He loved Christine, after all. How bad could the lad be? Daroga followed easier this time, and they made it to the surface together, though Erik nearly immediately collapsed and fell unconscious once the boy had been taken from his shoulders. His frame shook violently, shock from it all finally setting in.

He'd been operating in a focused frenzy: Save Christine. Save the Boy. Save Daroga. Climb. Save. Breathe. Climb. With these objectives accomplished, something in his mind released the barrier that had stopped most of the pain he would now experience.

His throat burned. His hands were torn from making the climb twice. He hadn't found time, reason, or way to observe his face, but Erik knew it was far worse than before. Based on the pain and the inability to focus his left eye and the constant new dryness in his mouth on that same side, the explosion had torn away much of what used to pass as a face.

The boy crawled towards Christine, the Daroga gently supporting him. Erik, shaking, tried to do the same, either to crawl alongside the boy to assure beloved Christine's health, or to support him, but his breathing seemed to hitch and struggle, his lungs buckling inside him as his arms collapsed beneath him. He barely felt himself hit the ground, but he knew it didn't hurt as much as it _should_.

He expected to fade to black and be gifted with nothingness. Death, at last, would be his punishment and reward for all his misdeeds. He'd be parted forever from Christine, but that would save her from him, too. He could accept that he'd been less than decent with her, that he'd been wicked and selfish and it had _hurt_ her. _He_ had hurt her. He would gladly drift into empty oblivion if it could atone this grand sin and prevent him in absolute totality from committing it again.

Yet.

Yet he did not.

Erik was aware of himself, face down in the dirt and rubble and glass, and he continued to be aware of it. Nothing seemed to ground him, and yet grounded he was.

He heard the boy and Daroga discussing something, and he knew it was about Christine. They sounded less than pleased. No, no it was.. upset. Afraid? How long had it been since Erik had heard Daroga afraid?

It stirred him to his hands and knees, and then lumbering to his feet, though he only managed to fumble the few feet to the other three before he collapsed again, returning to his knees.

He felt blood drip in heavy, half-coagulated strings from his not-a-nose and mouth, "S'wrong?"

Their words in response seemed like gibberish to him, but he gathered that Christine was going into shock. He didn't think the boy or Daroga knew the term for it, but Erik knew. Erik knew many things, and he knew that she needed a proper doctor, to get away from the heat, and he could not carry her again.

His strength was waning, and neither the boy nor Daroga seemed capable of doing it themselves, and it was not a burden they could share easily or practically. Once again, someone would have to go ahead, find help, and lead them back..

Erik stumbled and set to this task. It hurt. It hurt so much. He'd been in this much pain before, he knew, but he was younger then. This would have been easy then. He didn't know if he could do it even as he was doing it, but he did it. Nearly falling twice, the rush from the near-death lasting mere seconds before the bloodloss made him too dizzy to use it, it felt like forever.

But he did it.

And when he stumbled over the side of the fiery maw of what used to be a palace of art and wonder and into the street, his only action was to point back into the pit and speak her name. Her sacred name.

It was the last thing he'd said before finally, truly falling unconscious.

~O~O~O~

He was a mess.

All four of them, the Persian the least, but Erik was by far the worst. Raoul couldn't unsee the skeletal frame painted over with scorch marks and torn by glass, the muscles visible in some places, sinewy and worn and loose once, but tight and feverish now. It was horrifying to look at, and it must have been even worse to be living.

It had taken little convincing to get Erik brought home with him and the others. Apparently, Erik had only stumbled into the arms of the first stranger he'd found and collapsed there, breathing only Christine's name and pointing in their direction. No one knew who he was- he'd never been seen unmasked and his face had been so bloody and burned that it wouldn't have mattered anyway. He was treated with the test of them at the hospital.

When Raoul had awoken, he'd been told all of this, and that neither Erik nor Christine had yet woken, by the Persian. Erik was still anonymous, and the Persian left it to him whether or not to continue that anonymity. Raoul had given it much thought and decided it was not his decision. It was Christine's.

So he'd spun a little tale when the doctor's at the hospital inquired about the man's identity: a stranger, who'd selflessly plucked them from the fire. Raoul was honest about where he'd been- he didn't think any one of them would have survived if they'd been even a cellar up. And the other survivors of the opera would corroborate. They all knew that the young Vicomte and the Persian with the evil eye had gone down to search for the stolen soprano.

The way Raoul saw it, if Christine decided to have mercy on the man who'd tormented her and almost killed them all, and there was a strong likelihood she would, they needed a way to free Erik from his past identity. He could never return to being the Phantom or an Angel- he would have to live as a man, and a man only. And if Christine saw him as worthy of forgiveness, then the identity Raoul was forging had be believable. Erik could be a bystander, just an innocent opera-goer who'd done a good deed or three when the world went wrong.

Raoul didn't even learn his name until they'd been relocated to his family's estate. He'd insisted that the yet-unnamed but heroic man be treated by his family doctor on his family's dime, and since no one could claim him, as he was still unconscious and without an identity, everyone involved felt it was a fair enough thing to do. When the once-ghost awoke, the Persian spoke with him at great length, helping the doctor treat him and keep him calm.

Once calmed, Raoul demanded, albeit politely, that he be allowed to speak to the monster that had tried to take Christine from him. The Persian agreed, and let him in.

The ghost, for that is all Raoul knew him as at the time, was bandaged, but not a single strand of what was once white linen remained unbloodied. One of his eyes was visible, and it was a peircing yellow green, somehow more yellow than green. He recognized the color as one of a pair that he'd spotted outside his window, once. He'd shot where the body that ought to have belonged to the eyes ought to have been, and he had found blood. It unnerved him to make the connection, that this eye and those eyes then were the same.

That lone eye stabbed at him from the dark, and Raoul, even from the door, could see the eye dilate at the sudden new light. He shuddered, but hobbled in, and took up the chair that the Persian had been using, that he'd offered immediately. The Persian shut the door behind himself, leaving only a sliver of light for them to see by, and stayed by the door.

"Da.. roga…" The eye's voice struggled, air seeping each uttered syllable, ".. says you wish.. to speak." What a struggle the ghost was having, but at least he was being polite. "Says you.. are not passing.. Erik's judgement."

"Erik? Is this the name of the Opera Ghost?" Raoul had said.

".. it is one… of his names.." The voice was cryptic, but in the low light, Raoul could see him nod, and his eye fluttered, a kind of agreement or acceptance.

"Yes, Erik. I want to speak with you." Raoul nodded, sighing.

"And what… about?"

"A good question. I don't.. I don't rightly know." And he shook his head, sighing again. "I suppose.. I want to understand. And.. given that your condition is unwell and unfortunately unlikely to change very quickly or for the better, I thought.. I could at least relay your words to Christine, if necessary. I.. I want to understand for my own sake, of course, but.." Again, he shook his head, and ran a hand through disheveled golden hair.

Erik, the fallen ghost, the never-angel, sat in quiet for a long time, his breathing heavy in the air around the three of them.

"Erik is a selfish man." His voice seemed to cut through his own breathing, the sudden absence of that laboured breath leaving a stark quiet in the room.

"Come, Erik, is that all you can say for yourself?" The Persian, apparently this 'da roga' fellow, snapped, stunning both Erik and Raoul. He'd been so quiet until then. Erik shrugged, the effect more a sound of 'so so' than any real response could give. "You great fool. Shall I tell your story for you?"

"If.. it is necessary." He huffed, closing his eye and laying back. His golden eye half-closed and looked deeper into the shadows of the room, as if he could peer through it to focus on something that wasn't an indistinct mass of blackness. Raoul could see nothing, and though it was his own house and he'd seen the room a thousand times in daylight and candle- and gas-light, he couldn't seem to remember how deep the room was, or if it even ended. It was easy to imagine that the back of the room was really a great opening into endless night..

"Erik is indeed a selfish man. But he was once a child, as all selfish men must start their lives as. He was taught cruelty, and he learned it well. He learns everything well." The Persian starts. "For he is a genius, able to learn anything, it seems, except kindness or love or decency, for no one had ever taught him how. I tried, once, but he was not an attentive student. And he ran here, to Paris, built the opera, a kingdom of artistry and peace and solitude all for himself, and he lived there many years, mostly quiet and very safe, until your Christine Daae came to his kingdom.

It wasn't her fault. She was kind- so kind, that even he could see there was merit in it. And he desired it, as he has desired much. He thought, I can guess, that perhaps _she_ could be _his_ kindness. She was _so_ kind, after all. Kind and sweet and helpful and she saw music as he did. She felt it as he did, as no one else can. Not even you or I, young Vicomte, and we do love music.

He thought he _loved_ her. He may, in some way. But.. Erik is still a selfish man. His love is selfish too. And it led to what has happened." He sighed deeply and Raoul intuited that he shook his head in disappointment.

"All true." Erik said from the bed, eye now closed. "Erik is.. for the first time.. sorry. But he is now powerless.. to show it. He has ruined… and he cannot fix it…"

"Perhaps not so, Monsieur." Raoul said, and Erik's eye flipped open, flicking as quickly as the tired eye could to Raoul, to meet his gaze.

"How?"

"You.. your actions killed dozens. But I believe.. well, I am.. I am not in any position to pass judgement. I am but a man, as you are, though I have never masqueraded as a phantom or an angel, and I believe it is for someone else to judge us for the fullness of our lives. But I do believe.." Raoul had to stop and gather his thoughts for a long moment, thumb plying at the handle of the cane he'd been relying on.

He looked up after that long time, and met Erik's hard, golden gaze with a stony stare of his own. "You saved Christine. From your own mess, yes, but you could have left her there. You could have left _us_ there. But you didn't. You.. you even carried _me_. And I.. I know you were injured in doing so. It would have been very easy to be selfish, then. In- In that moment. In any of those moments.

But you weren't. And though I… am and want to be furious for all the horrid things you've done to Christine, as much as I wish I could.. pass my own judgement based on who I thought you were before the opera exploded.. I can't stop thinking about any of what you did after it exploded.

It would have been _so easy_ to let any of us die. But you didn't. Not once, but _three times_ did you climb the burning edges of the cellars to get us all out.. And.. I can't help but.. think about who.. what that makes you.

Ultimately, I do not know you, Erik. I truthfully do not think I can comprehend the person you are. I don't think you can, either. It's a kind of madness, I suppose. But.." And he paused again, looking down briefly, and up again, stare harder than before. "I cannot condemn you." It was true, and it tore his heart to shreds. He wanted to hate Erik, but he found himself almost _loving_ him instead. He _did_ hate him, but he wanted to love him, too. It was maddening and infuriating and it made his heart ache and head pound and temples sweat, but it was all true.

"So I'm leaving that to Christine." He finished, releasing a breath that was not a sigh, but did him much less good. He rose, then, and fumbled, hobbling, toward the crack of light.

It was not the last time they'd talk in the next day and a half before Christine awoke, but it was the most lucid. Erik refused any pain medication, as he'd apparently been addicted to all of them, and he was certain that starting even a small amount would either not work or kill him outright as his body overreacted to the substances. It left him more than half deranged.

~O~O~O~

He was sitting in the dark. He'd always loved the dark, she knew. It was safe for him there. It was a truth she'd known once for herself, when lights in the dark were potential aggressors and unkind adults.

But she'd lived so long in the light since those dark young days that it was no longer a truth of her own. The darkness hadn't been frightening until recently, and it was the direct cause of the man now sitting in it.

He wasn't alone, though. She'd never seen him 'casual', before. Christine had always seen him at his best, at his most cultivated image of himself, and certainly always the _best_ of those he might deign to be around. Here, he was the roughest shod of all gathered, and they were all gathered near to him, which was another oddity. Even with her, he'd kept his distance, never coming close unless it was necessary or he was in a foul, living wrath of a mood.

Raoul, of all people, sat at his bedside as he'd not more than ten minutes ago been sitting at hers, talking quietly in Erik's ear.

Erik. She'd avoided his name in her own head, and she couldn't say why. She'd known him first as the Opera Ghost, though not personally. She'd known the Voice, her Angel of Music, sent by her father from heaven and God himself, next. And she'd known the Voice longest and best, she'd thought.

Then she knew the man. And he did not have a name, then. She'd gone down with him in a haze and he did not tell her his name for many days, until she begged him to go back up, if only for a while. He'd told her his name, then, no. 'A' name. He'd 'found it', he'd said.

Erik.

He was just a man, now. She could no longer conjure the image of the Angel she once thought him to be, nor could she picture him as the masked fiend of the Opera. She'd never seen him in that context, but even her best imagining could not make this man that ghost.

The dark man set her down in a high backed chair covered in velvet, which was cool from disuse, and she observed her teacher closely.

His entire form was bandaged, much the same as her arm was bandaged. It gave him a visual weight that she somehow knew was not accurate to his actual weight. The bandages were varying shades of burgundy, but old. That was good, at least, she supposed. The only part of him that was truly visible, though, was a single eye. His right. She'd seen those eyes when she spoke with the Angel in the mirror, calm and kind and delicate.

"Christine." Ah. It was his voice. Her Voice. Her Angel, her teacher, her tormentor, her friend, protector, captor, guide, ghost, and demon.. So many things and he was all of them. How to sum it all up?

"Erik." She'd never said his name before today, she thought. Or maybe she had, but she hadn't _known_ him. It might as well have been someone else's name when she'd said it before.

There was a terrible silence as all waited for one or the other to say something first, but neither did. Christine could only stare, uncertain and yet solid in her surety. She could not gauge the person before her. She still didn't know him and yet she did. She knew him intimately in her heart and soul, as she'd always known Raoul, as she once knew her father, as she knew herself.

"Erik is sorry for what he's done to you, Christine." His voice again, at last, came from somewhere inside the bundle of bandages. His tone was mournful, sincere, and disheartened. It was at once a humbling of his person before her and a plea for mercy from a man before the guillotine.

"Erik is sorry." She repeated. She was surprised by the ice in her own voice, but the rest of her was too warm and uncomfortable to be anything but ice. "Christine wonders what Erik is sorry _for_ , exactly." She didn't mean to mock his way of speaking, but her tongue was thinking and enacting its own desires. Raoul's eyebrows jumped in surprise, but he said nothing.

"Erik is- Th-that is-" Erik himself sputtered, his facade melting. Raoul put his hand over one of Erik's, not quite touching for fear of sparking pain, it seemed, but his effort to calm him worked. "I.. was selfish. I behaved selfishly. In- In taking advantage of you, Christine. H- I.. I had lived a life of selfishness, for none had ever been selfless to me.. as I saw you were. I wanted your kindness, I wanted _you_ , and I wanted you at any and all costs. I thought I loved you, Christine, but I did not act in love as one ought to." He trailed, his breathing labouring for a moment, but he did not continue even when his breathing calmed.

"I see." She said. She could feel herself frowning, but her cheek, her right cheek, was stiff and protested and she knew if she frowned too hard it would split and bleed.

"Christine.." Raoul sighed. "I.. have heard Erik's story. I.. We all agree… That is.." He floundered and stopped.

"Young Mademoiselle, you are to pass judgement on Erik." The dark man declared, frustrated by Raoul's inability to get to his point. "By all accounts, you have been wronged the most of all gathered here by our mutual _friend_. The doctors here have been sworn to secrecy on Erik's identity, so should you wish it, no one will ever know the misdeeds of the Opera Ghost in relation to the man before us. But should you wish it, he will pay for his crimes at the hand of Paris' law. Only by your will. It is not a light decision, we understand. He may not even live to suffer his punishment if that is the path you choose. But we must know.

What would you have us do?"

Christine could feel tears in her eyes forming at the thought of Erik dying, but she did not let them fall. She took a deep, jerking breath, and steeled herself.

"Erik." She demanded, setting her eyes on him like arrows notched in a bow. There was a tense moment as she half-decided and half-dedicated to what she was about to say. "Erik, you are many things. I cannot claim to know most of them. In the short year or so I've known you, you have been.. an Angel, a Voice, a teacher, and a friend, at times. I loved those times. I loved talking with you and learning from you. You renewed my faith in myself and my father and my future, amongst other things.

And then you destroyed them. You became my kidnapper, my stalker, my controller, the chains that bound me unwillingly to the place I once hoped to live in forever, that now lies, presumably, in ash. You became a source of fear and unease and despair. You made me feel trapped inside my own life and my own head, for sometimes not even there was I safe from your words and actions. You took my faith and tossed it in my face and made me feel hopeless and dead.

I trusted you and everything you said, and, as you said, you took advantage of that. More than that, you threatened my fiance, whom I love, as well as all of Paris with a.. desperate, mad attempt to even furthermore bind me to you. And.. when I chose.." The tears fell then, but they were anger, fury, and frustration. She'd been sad for too long, and sadness was an enormous part of why they were all here to begin with. The time for sadness was over.

"When I chose to _stay_ with you, to placate you.. you played a final trick on me. All I can ask.. is why?" Her voice rang out like a storm, thunder and rain in one sound, her eyes hard and angry on Erik, demanding.

He'd always seemed like stone to her, but he quailed before her. He almost couldn't stand to keep his eyes locked with hers, but he most certainly could not look away. Anxiety gripped him, she could see and hear as his breathing shortened and became stuck in his throat.

She could have held him there until he died, and in another, angrier life, she might have.

~O~O~O~

Erik shuddered as she released him from her visual grip. He wondered how he'd never seen that fire before, and he realized he had never called it out of her. Her fury was tamed as his had never been, a weapon in her arsenal and a hole in his defenses. Well, he had justly earned it, he thought.

"I'm willing to listen, Erik. Why did you do this?" She asked gently, and he marveled at her ability to reign in her wrath. She could set him ablaze and he would be grateful for it, he had earned it, after all. She was more merciful than he'd even concieved..

"It was an error on Erik's- on- on _my_ part. In the depth of.. I can only call it madness, Christine, but it is without excuse, but in the depth of it, Christine, I.. I created the mechanism that symbolized your choice. Life and death with _me_ , or short life and death with all of Paris.

However I.. I failed to.. I did it all wrong. The choice you made was meant to be one of long life, albeit with me.. but I _wired_ it.. to be death. It was a mistake. An error. But- but." He could only shake his head.

"I see." Christine said, and looked down to her hand, the burned one, and Erik winced. Oh, her face, the burn mark that stretched, round, from her jaw to just above and around her eyebrow, too close to her beautiful, field-colored eye. Her arm, covered in blotchy red on white bandages, and her breathing obviously stressed. "How did we come to be here? I do not remember after.. after the explosion."

"Erik saved us all." Raoul said from beside him. He seemed eager to assuage her on Erik's behalf, and it once again shocked him. The boy, who he could finally allow himself to regard with his name, had surprised him with how.. understanding he had at least attempted to be. "He took you first, and came back for us, and went up and sent help.. we could not have done it ourselves.."

"I only- I had to try to rectify my mistakes, in however small a way I could, Christine." Erik managed to say. "I am- I have done so much wrong, and so much to you, and I couldn't comprehend it until it.. until it all went up in flames.. and it makes me a truly horrific human, Christine. I can never undo what I've done, and I can never repay my debt.. not to you, not to anyone. But I had to do something. It was all I could do, and it was right, and I.." Exhaustion hit Eriklike an opera house was collapsing on him for a second time. He was tired; tired of running and hiding and living beneath everyone else. He was tired of excusing himself, and so tired of living outside the rules.

"Erik." Christine called his attention back up, and his eye, for the other was blind now, wavered on its way to meet hers. She was gentle, but emotionless. "You regret it?"

"All of it." He nodded slowly.

"Then I can only forgive you." She said, and smiled sadly. "I do not think I could ever trust you, Erik, but I can forgive you. S-sir, would you mind..?" She motioned to Daroga, and he, smiling, lifted her over to Raoul, who helped her sit close to Erik. He trembled, for he was weak and she was strong, she was the sun and he was but a pebble in the street. She could decimate him, and again he would be grateful for her benevolent destruction of his sinful heart.

It seemed to him that she knew it, too. Perhaps not in such words, perhaps not even in the forefront of her mind or in language at all, but she knew in some way that she was, in this and every moment since she'd entered his life, his beginning and his end.

Christine lifted a hand, and put it to where he might have had a cheek, and she smiled, and they cried.

~O~O~O~

Erik passed a week later. In the time between her forgiveness and his passing, they talked much, of many things, and made better many wrongs. It was a happy, if strange, time for the lot of them, and it was sad when it was discovered that the oddest amongst them had ceased breathing in his sleep.

Daroga, who finally gave his first name, Bahram, explained that Erik was older than he was, and likely soon to depart anyway. The damage of the fire expedited nature's course, he supposed, and Christine and Raoul could not disagree. Bahram did not go into any more detail about how he'd known Erik, but he seemed the saddest of the three of them that the strange man had died.

Erik was buried on the de Chagny estate with the rest of Raoul's family, as after that strange and wonderful and awful week Erik had certainly become their family. They together crafted a final last name for Erik and marked it on his gravestone.

Christine and Raoul were married the following spring, after both could stand on their own. They delivered their vows first in a proper ceremony, and then again over Erik's resting place. Bahram officiated the second, and all three cried both in joy and sorrow.

The opera was never rebuilt, though the hole down to the fifth cellar was eventually covered, and Christine lost much of her voice so it did not matter much to her. She did take up piano and violin, however, for music was still in her soul as much as it had ever been.

The world was a strange place. They lived in a world where children were born, both loved and hated, taken care of and forsaken, led to darkness and to light, to love music and live for it and die for it. It was a world where sopranos could be kidnapped by ghosts or taught by angels and loved by men. It was a world where operas could explode and gaping holes in cities and hearts could be formed and filled in over time by more life and light and music.

So Christine and Raoul chose to fill their world as such. They exuded life and love and music, despite the hideous trauma that had been done to them on that day, the day when the scorpion hopped. The marks on their cheeks were mirrors into a world that wasn't quite theirs, a world of what ifs and why nots, but one they didn't get to explore. They served as sometimes bitter reminders of what had happened, but more often they served as badges of pride and a reminder of what they had chosen.

Bahram was their greatest friend, and he loved them as much as he'd loved Erik and as much as Erik had loved them for the brief time he'd been able to. The world never forgave the Opera Ghost, but they three, and the doctor and his wife, knew the truth. It was a hard, strange, complicated truth, but it was one that never left them.

On that day, the scorpion hopped, a mask fell, a man rose, and love, in its strange way, won. It wasn't the best ending. It probably wasn't fair. But that was the truth. It was their truth, and it guided them all their days.

The End.


End file.
